September 24, 2026 – 09:29
The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her physical form requires any explanation, but because the response highlights just how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, entirely open to observation, assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
This pervasive cultural habit of picking apart women’s appearances is a cycle that touches virtually everyone in the public eye, while also reflecting deeply ingrained societal flaws in how everyday people view weight, health, and physical presentation.
Having spent most of my life relatively thin, I am acutely aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment, barriers, and discrimination experienced by people in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a stark reminder of how deeply our society has normalized treating weight as public information available for broad commentary. After I unintentionally lost weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful condition that at times left me unable to digest more than one meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so intensely committed to thinness that visible weight loss was automatically interpreted as good news, even when it was clear evidence that I was unwell and suffering.
It is hardly any wonder, given this toxic backdrop, that so many women struggle intensely with body image issues and eating disorders. In a July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes candidly described how receiving persistent praise and compliments when she lost weight—driven entirely by her struggles with bulimia—left her deeply confused. The constant positive reinforcement she received reinforced the dangerous idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even during periods when her physical and mental health were severely compromised.
That is the relentless reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our bodies ever seems to escape public commentary. If you are thin, you are told to gain weight; if you have a larger frame, you are scrutinized or marginalized. People always manage to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express concern over, and simply being on the receiving end of that constant, uninvited scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up within families and cultural environments where personal comments about women’s bodies are so thoroughly normalized that we do not always recognize them for what they truly are: boundary violations. One relative pulls you aside to tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is just as quick to point out that you have gained weight. A tía might casually comment on the size of your thighs or your waistline during a family gathering.
Growing up, my girl cousins often told me that I was far too skinny and desperately needed to gain weight. Within my immediate family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. While it was almost always intended and expressed as a term of endearment, losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affectionate label into a source of genuine worry and interrogation.
Jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I always understood that they typically stemmed from a place of genuine familial love. But loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message conveyed by those words: that my body is open for public evaluation and that others have an inherent right to weigh in on it.
What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations that surround us from youth to adulthood. We are constantly told to be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." Society demands that we remain feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny.
We are encouraged to enjoy food and partake in cultural traditions, only to be criticized the moment we gain any weight. Conversely, we are praised extensively for losing weight, immediately followed by anxious questions regarding whether we are eating enough—a line of inquiry I have heard echoed my entire life. No version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to exist in peace.
This deeply ingrained cultural dynamic is precisely why the public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. Recently, her younger sister, Aliyah, felt compelled to publicly support a fan’s message reminding people that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body or her health status. The core premise is entirely simple and should be non-negotiable: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do.
And yet, looking at the cultural landscape, we are still forced to state these basic boundaries out loud. A woman’s physical body is not a public question that she is required to answer.
